Page 36 of Sweet Distraction

My brothers have checked in, but I haven’t told them I’m ignoring the bigger picture—I have a daughter—and considering my pleasure over the little girl’s needs.

My phone alerts a text. I hang my head and chuckle in exasperation. No doubt it’s the guys checking in. Again. And razzing the fuck out of me. Again.

Vince: How’s the hot nanny?

Me: For the tenth time. She’s not my type. Not even close.

Gizmo: Doth protest too much.

Me: Since when the fuck do you quote Shakespeare?

Gizmo: Always full of surprises over here.

Hawkin: We need a pic of her. Or a last name so we can look her up on social media. (This is Quinlan. You’re holding out on us!)

I chuckle. Of course, Hawkin’s wife would accost his phone since I’m not giving her shit.

Hawkin: And it’s okay to like the nanny. You have to blow off some steam somehow, right?

Gizmo: Blow being the operative word there.

Vince: Ah. That’s why he didn’t answer my call. He was otherwise occupied.

Me: Was on a run. Too hard to talk and run.

Hawkin: Already giving excuses in case he answers and is out of breath.

Me: You guys are assholes.

Gizmo: Yes. Yes, we are.

I shake my head. All this shit and the irony is that Willow isn’t even my type. Not even close. She’s independent and grounded and far too sharp for a guy like me. I like chaos. Attitude. A little edge. Not much push-back.

She walks around here in cutoffs and messy braids and makes juice boxes look like tactical gear. She’s sunshine and sass and soft curves wrapped in no-nonsense.

And other than in the kitchen that first night, she’s a goddamn defensive armor when it comes to Poppy. Almost like she’s protecting her from me like any intelligent, assuming person in their right mind would do.

Or maybe she’s giving me time to adjust.

Vince: You’re not answering. That means you’re pissed.

Me: Not pissed.

Hawkin: You good, man?

Me: That’s debatable? I don’t fucking know? All of the above?

All I know is I’m distracted with music, with working out, with thoughts of her. Wondering what her hair looks like when it’s out of that braid or what her voice would sound like moaning my name.

Juvenile shit. Bait and switch shit so I can escape reality. But valid thoughts none the fuck less.

Vince: When can we meet Poppy?

Gizmo: And the hot nanny?

Me: Thinking one big scary man is enough for her to deal with right now.

Hawkin: Fair.